never get anywhere. Three massive semicircles boasting more than 80 gates, all of which were equally inaccessible, regardless of which gate you were connecting from. Their connection to Miami was at gate A-19. They had arrived at gate C-23, and naturally, the shuttle train was on the blink.
Moving through the terminal became a study in petit Armageddon. Sky-caps drove golf carts at breakneck speeds with less regard than usual for human life, and gate agents had long since abandoned their facades of officious geniality. The crowds around them were larger and more fractious than the normal airport hordes. There were distraught clusters of waylaid travelers caught in the growing number of flight cancellations and delays that epitomized the times. And there was also a large contingent of vagrants who had taken up residence within the terminal buildings. Sometimes it was hard to tell which was which.
“Airports are high-maintenance facilities,” Winston explained as they power-walked through the terminal. “As things start to go bad, places like this get hit first.”
' ‘Go bad’—you make it sound like the world is a container of milk that’s been left out too long.”
They passed a small gaggle of self-proclaimed Colists—one of countless disconnected and misinformed groups that had sprung up like crabgrass in public places, claiming to be followers of Dillon. This particular group had a Santeria flavor, and evoked blood-curses on the beleaguered security guard that tried to roust them. It seemed airport security, which had peaked at the turn of the millennium, had now sunk to an all time low.
“Eventually,” said Winston, “as things slip further and further into chaos, there won’t be enough employees to keep a place like this running. The airlines will begin to shut down.”
Drew had read just a few weeks ago how United had dropped service to a dozen smaller cities. Apparently it was a sign of things to come. It boggled him to the point that he felt like burying his head in the sand, the way so many others did. “How could the Backwash be responsible for all of this?”
They had reached a moving sidewalk between terminals B and C, and they paused to let Winston catch his breath.
“Great events flow like ripples through civilization,” Winston explained. “Assassinations, bombings. Acts of war. But Dillon—even unintentionally—is far too good at both creation and destruction. What he did to that dam, and that river, was the
Drew tried to consider it. He supposed everyone had psychological pressure points—events that can define you, or destroy you . . . but the human race was not a single personality; it was a collection of six billion disparate identities. To consider some cabalistic interconnectedness of the body human didn’t sit well with Drew. There were simply too many people he did not want to be connected to.
“I don’t know,” Drew said. “It’s all too Jedi for me.”
“It’s not just mysticism,” said Winston. “There’s a logic to it. Everything is a series of actions and reactions. Dillon’s very presence brings order to it—lining things up in a series of chain reactions. What Dillon did—what we
As if to prove Winston’s point, they found their flight canceled when they reached the gate, adding to the collective misery of the airport hordes.
“Flight crew shortages, and too many travelers,” the gate attendant told them. “It’s like that with all the beach cities; all of a sudden everyone’s going on vacation.”
And so their night was spent in the airport on a goose chase to every gate that promised a flight to Miami. But with so much competition, getting on stand-by was like winning the lottery. They watched three flights arrive, watched them all leave, and were no closer to getting a seat.
At 7:00 a.m. they sat in uncomfortable airport chairs on a long stand-by list for the fourth time.
“Why does it even matter if we find Briscoe?” Drew grumbled, wishing he could be home in a comfortable bed. “I mean, yeah, it’d be great if Dillon could take Tory’s ashes and bring her back. But even if Briscoe does get her ashes, it’s not the end of the world.”
“Are you so sure of that?” Winston asked.
After a night with no sleep, Drew didn’t feel like tackling the big questions. “I don’t follow.”
“You told me yourself—he said he’s on some ‘divine mission.’ Maybe there’s something to that—although I don’t think it’s anything divine.”
“Or maybe he’s just a psycho.”
Winston considered it and shook his head. “I keep having this dream—more like a vision. There’s three figures standing on a ledge and they’re waiting for something. I believe Briscoe is in the dream, too—or at least he used to be. It’s him they’re waiting for.”
Drew rolled his neck. He always knew he wasn’t one of them, but neither did he appreciate being left in the dark. “You could have told me.”
Winston glanced around to make sure they were unobserved, then spoke quietly. “There were six Shards of the Scorpion Star, Drew. Two years ago, all six of us touched for an instant, and it was the most powerful thing I’ve ever felt. But now three of us are dead.” Winston leaned in closer, his voice growing more hushed. “What if they weren’t supposed to die? What if everything hinges on Dillon bringing them back, and the six of us coming together again?”
Drew uncomfortably shifted his shoulders, feeling the pull of the stitches on his arm, which wasn’t getting any better.
“The whole has always been greater than the sum of our parts,” Winston continued. “The more of us together, the more our powers multiply. With the way our powers are growing, can you imagine what might happen if the six of us came together now?”
“No, I can’t.” Drew said honestly. “I’m not sure I want to.”
Winston nodded. “Neither does Briscoe.”
The next inbound from Miami pulled up to the gate half an hour late. A short break for fueling, luggage, and mechanical band-aids, and it would head back to the land of gators and hurricanes. The crowds at the gate, however, made it doubtful that Drew and Winston would get seats.
They waited, eying the slow-moving check-in line, casually watching as passengers disembarked the jet in a panicked diaspora to catch whatever flight they were already late for.
So anxious was Drew to get on this flight that he almost missed the exiting passenger with a patch over his eye.
He saw it only for the briefest instant as he scanned the jetway exit, but once his brain registered what he had seen, he double-took to see the man’s back as he strode toward the higher gates.
A dozen denials shot through Drew’s mind. This could not be the same man. He looked taller; he looked leaner; what hair he had left seemed grayer at the temples. But Drew had only encountered him twice. How many men fitting that general description flew out of Miami on any given day? one hundred? two hundred? How many with a wounded right eye? Drew felt his cool, level demeanor began to splinter, and he shook Winston hard enough to rattle his chair.
“It’s him! It’s Briscoe—I’m sure of it!” His certainty swelled with his adrenaline.
“What?! Where?”
“There—just passing gate nine—do you see him?”
Their subject carried a leather shoulder bag that bulged like everyone else’s carry-on—but there was an unnerving definition to the bulge, as if whatever it was, was not meant to be jammed into luggage. He turned to enter a bathroom, and again Drew caught a brief glimpse of the bandage over his eye.
“Would you know him if you saw him close up?” Winston asked.
“No question about it. Oh, shit! What do we do?”
“What happened to the unshakeable Drew Camden I used to know?”
“I think he’s about to piss his pants.” Drew felt his emotions slingshot back to the scuffle on top of Michael’s coffin, but Winston was there to pick up the slack, and pull both their minds into focus.
“Okay . . . okay, if it’s him, we have to be careful,” Winston said, as they headed toward the restroom.
“Do we storm the bathroom?”
“No—we’re not even sure it’s him yet. We’ll separate—I’ll go to the gift shop on this side of the restroom,
